


'A Name' and 'A Commute'

by eleanor_lavish, thepsychicclam



Series: Valiant Effort [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-18
Updated: 2009-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepsychicclam/pseuds/thepsychicclam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Introduction to Billy Boyd, suit wearing commuter and lead guitarist/singer for Valiant Effort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'A Name' and 'A Commute'

**Author's Note:**

> Written by EL.

_“Fascination.”_

“Um, no. Noooooo.” Orlando looked at Elijah like he was twelve. Elijah hated that look.

“Why?” Elijah’s eyes narrowed.

Dom jumped in to avert disaster. They had been brainstorming band names for over two hours and had come up with nothing, even after emptying almost an entire bottle of Cuervo and a twelve pack of Guinness. “Because, Lijah. It sounds like a fucking showgirls title.”

“Does not! OK, it does. Got anything better?”

_“Big Spender?”_ Orlando looked around helplessly.

Billy sighed. “Nope. Sounds like a big band name, Orli.” He poured another round of shots and passed the salt.

_“Poking Badgers!”_

The room stopped mid-shot to stare at Dominic.

“What!?”

Billy looked like he would throttle Dom if he had the balance to stand up. “Dom…”

“Fine. Wankers.”

Elijah’s eyes got big again and his arms flailed wildly with a new idea. “How ‘bout _Immortal Dryad?_ ”

“What does that even MEAN, Lij?” Billy was beginning to think the Cuervo hadn’t ben the best idea.

“Dryads. You know. Tree spirits!”

Dom was actually looking interested in that one so Billy jumped in before reason went out the fucking window. “What about _Kettle of Fish_?”

“That sounds good, Bill!” Billy couldn’t tell if Orlando was actually enthusiastic or if he was just that anxious to get done with this band meeting.

“No.” Elijah’s negation was pretty final.

“Lijah…”

“There is already a band called _Kettle of Fish_.”

Dom look incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

At that, Orlando collapsed, head in hands on the table. Dom let out a short scream. “Bloody fucking hell. There are no good band names left on the planet.”

Billy supposed the name would have to wait until later. He was having trouble keeping up at this point, which meant Elijah should already be unconscious. He grinned with brotherly pride at the boy’s newfound tolerance. “Well, boys. We gave it a valiant effort.”

The room went still and quiet for one long minute as four pairs of eyes went wide with glee.

**“VALIANT EFFORT!!!!!”**

 

 

 

A Commute

 

 

Billy often wonders if he's done the right thing, moving them all to New York, away form the London scene. He knows Orli and Dom miss their families, and he misses his sister something fierce, but New York is the place to be for up-and-coming bands.

And he has to admit, eyeing the sleepy pale figure struggling to open the Lucky Charms box, that without moving they would never have been whole. Never have found the missing part.

"Lijah? Need a hand there, mate?"

Elijah runs his fingers through already disheveled hair and grins. "If you can open this fucking thing, be my guest."

"‘Fucking’ at 8am. Boy, you are a born rock star. Gonna catch the 9 uptown with me?"

"Nah. Nice day and philosophy isn't for an hour. Figure I'll walk."

"Alright. I'll be home by 6. Practice at Ian's then. Remember to bring your ID this time-- and try to keep sober before we start!"

Elijah laughs as he shuffles toward the room he shares with Billy and Orlando. Dom is, as usual, passed out on the sofa. "Thanks, dad! I'll fucking remember!" He's cut off by a muffled angry sound. Billy can't tell who its from-- Orli or Dom-- since the apartment is so damn small that they both could have been woken by the simple morning exchange. Billy guesses it was probably Orli since Dom sleeps like the dead.

He tries to imagine Stu instead of Elijah, padding around the tiny apartment, grinning in the mornings, interrupting poker games to share a snippet of Yeats he was memorizing for a class he never went to, yet was acing anyway. Stuart was their drummer in London—all sexy churlishness and swagger. But he and Orli had never gotten on, and when Billy pressed the Big Idea to move across the pond, Stu left in a huff. They came anyway—Billy and Dom and Orli—because they wanted IT to happen. IT was close in London, but not close enough, and they figured if they could make it in New York… They believed in Sinatra.

But they needed a drummer, and badly. And when little Elijah Wood—all big eyes and silly smiles and wide stares promising the opposite of Stu Townsend— walked in to their quick and dirty auditions, they only let him try out because Dom took pity. ( _“He’s so excited!” “He looks fifteen!” “He’s 20.” “Fine. One song.”_ ) Billy had been completely unprepared for the speed and grace Lijah brought to a drum set. He just let go and flew, no fancy stick twirling (that would come later), no tricks, just the beat, with Dom leading him through on bass, then Orli joining in with riffs that failed to throw him off and finally Billy, because he couldn’t not play when there was music in the air and his Fender in his hands. They had jammed for almost an hour without a word. In fact, the only thing Billy remembers saying to the kid that night is “Next practice is on Wednesday.”

 

 

 

 

"Don't wake the vampires!" he calls over his shoulder as he grabs his coat and messenger bag and heads out the door. He doesn't bother locking the door behind him-- none of them do anymore. Their schedules are such that, except for practices and gigs, there is always someone home.

Billy loves the subway. He guesses he’ll feel differently after a few years of sticky hot summers and stickier winters in the hot tunnels, but now it still feels so new. It’s dirty and close and so full during rush hour that he doesn’t even need to hold the handholds (which are a slightly uncomfortable reach for his 5’5” frame anyway). He just lets the crowd hold him up.

And what a crowd. Suits, and more suits. He’s been told that there used to be so many more before 9/11, getting on and off with dry-cleaning and briefcases, and Billy wonders where they all used to fit. What Billy really loves are the non-suits, though. The tourists, still wide-eyed from the shock of it; the school kids in season, with backpacks and giggles, some wearing the gang colors that blended so easily with the trendy street clothes. The homeless, who used the trains for heat, or cool, or dry, or a seat. And the punks. In his neighborhood there were always an abundance of neo-punk-ska-alt-emo artistes, decked in Docs and knit caps and trenches and safety pins and ink. They were rude, but intelligent, and Billy always smiled and ducked his head and tugged a little harder on the cotton of his sleeves, making sure none of them saw the ink, or guessed his game.

Because Billy, in trying this… thing he insisted on trying in New York, this DREAM thing, had to break a cardinal rule. He had to get a Real Job™. He had hemmed and hawed when they arrived, but truth was he was the only one of them who could pull it off. And they needed the rent. And the work visas. Dom “worked” for Ian at the club—at least on the books. In reality, he stocked the bar and was the local score for most of the ska set below Bleeker. Orlando waited tables at the trendiest restaurant in Soho (his own ink tactfully covered), and even though he was a shitty waiter he picked up great tips because, Billy had to admit, he was the prettiest. Elijah (bloody American bastard not having to worry about being deported) “went to NYU” when it suited him, which was maybe once a week, usually when he stopped by his dorm room to check his messages and his mail, and generally lived off his parents— blissfully ignorant of their baby boy’s newest venture. Most of the time he was at Ian’s, pouring shots with his fake ID in his front pocket.

But Billy fucking Boyd, Glasgow rock legend, got up early, put on a fucking tie and went uptown to work in the print office of Simon and Schuster. He kept himself sane by refusing to ever stop at Starbucks, no matter how bad his hangover. The Devil could hang him before he ever passed over money for a Macchiatto.  



End file.
